


Oats, Coconut, and Golden Syrup

by gayalondiel



Series: watsons_woes July 2011 challenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Allergies, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a rather bad reaction to Australian festivities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oats, Coconut, and Golden Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> watsons_woes LJ community posted a daily prompt challenge for July 2011 wherein you had to respond within 24 hours. These are my responses, so they are a little hasty and unpolished. Also damned weird.
> 
> July 4: Celebration of a non-British holiday
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.  
>  **AN:** Hm. This had a good go at being angst/ill!Sherlock worry. But it degenerated in silliness. I can’t kill someone every time I write a fic, I guess.

_I’m dying. SH_

John blinked twice at his phone, slipped it back in his pocket and buzzed the intercom for the next patient. Sherlock dying could mean anything from “I need a cup of tea urgently” to “I may have cross-contaminated your pizza with the last remaining vial of _Variola major_ in Europe” but to date had never actually been life-threatening. While he diagnosed Mrs Davies with a bad cough and (privately) a touch of hypochondriasis, his phone vibrated twice in his pocket. He waited until she had gone and he had finished typing up her notes before checking.

 _John. Dying. Send help._

 _JOHN_

John frowned, but before he could respond the phone in his hand started ringing, displaying Sherlock’s number. Sherlock _never_ phoned. Quickly he raised it to his ear.

“Sherlock?”

“Oh, John, dear, thank goodness.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“I’m afraid Sherlock’s not very well. I wasn’t sure if we should take him to your clinic or maybe to hospital, I don’t like to cause fuss over nothing but he’s not in a good way...”

“Okay, Mrs Hudson, all right.” John felt growing concern at the edge of panic in her voice. “Tell me what his symptoms are?”

“He’s very pink, dear, and he’s wheezing quite badly. What else, dear? Stomach pain, he says, and... what’s that, Sherlock? He says cardiac dysrhythmia. I don’t know...”

“Call an ambulance,” John snapped out, cutting across her. “Call now, tell them he’s in anaphylactic shock. You need an ambulance right now. If he’s eaten or... whatever... whatever he’s been playing with, bring it to the hospital. Call me if it’s not UCH they take you to, I’ll meet you there.” Heart thudding he hung up the phone and near ran out the door to make his excuses - again - to Sarah.

* * *

“How could you not know you had a nut allergy?”

Sherlock glared at him from the hospital bed he was currently not being allowed to leave.

“Not all nuts, obviously. Tree nuts, it seems, or at the very least coconut.”

John selected his third biscuit and nibbled at it. “That does seem to be the most obvious culprit, although we should probably get you to an allergy clinic to confirm it.” Mentally he added epinephrine to the already extensive list of necessary medicines to keep in the vicinity of his flatmate.

“Unnecessary.”

“Sherlock, you are absolutely not doing the tests yourself.”

“Of course not!”

“That’s good...”

“You can do them for me.”

“That’s not good,” amended John. “Not even a bit. Mrs Hudson, these are amazing.” He took another bite, catching crumbs clumsily in his free hand. Sherlock glared.

“Do you mind?”

“Nope,” grinned John. “How come you were eating anyway? You’re halfway through a case, normally I have to threaten you with intubation.”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” said Mrs Hudson, still seemingly halfway between tears and amusement. “I made the cookies to celebrate. I didn’t know Sherlock would have a reaction.”

“Well, seeing as he didn’t know, you couldn’t possibly have,” John pointed out. “What are we celebrating?”

Mrs Hudson fixed him with a stare. “Really, John. And you a military man?”

John glanced at his watch to check the date. 25th April. It was the wrong side of the year for Remembrance, or Trafalgar Day, Easter had been and gone (and wasn’t particularly military, of course), and D-Day was a couple of months off.

“Um,” he offered, looking to Sherlock for help and getting a _serves you right_ look in response. Feeling slightly guilty, he looked back at Mrs Hudson. “I’m very sorry, Mrs Hudson, I don’t know. What am I missing?”

“It’s ANZAC day, dear,” she replied, only a little patronisingly.

“ANZAC day?”

“Yes, John. Those are ANZAC biscuits you’re eating.”

“Oh.” John polished off his biscuit, enjoying the melting taste of oats, coconut and golden syrup. “Is there a particular reason...”

“Don’t be obtuse, John,” grumbled Sherlock. “It’s obvious from her accent, Mrs Hudson is half Australian. Her father’s side, judging by the colour of her eyes. From the way she shapes the biscuits you can see that her grandfather served with the ANZAC at the Battle of Gallipoli.”

John had been with him up to “colour of her eyes,” but now rolled his own eyes. “Give it a rest, Sherlock. I know you’re good, but your not that good. She told you that to convince you to eat a biscuit.” Sherlock glared, but there was a twinkle of mirth in his slightly bloodshot eyes. Mrs Hudson chuckled.

“All true, though,” she said proudly. “We’re a first-generation deportee family, you know.” Sherlock perked up at that and John had a suspicion that the next lull in casework would be taken up by tracing the criminal roots of Mrs Hudson’s father’s family.

“I’ve had enough,” Sherlock announced suddenly. “Let’s go.” John pushed him back to the bed firmly.

“Not a chance. We’re not going anywhere until you’ve got a prescription for epipens.”

“You can do that!”

“I’m not your consultant, Sherlock! I can’t just go around writing you random prescriptions, there is such a thing as professional responsibility. You’ll just have to wait.” Sherlock settled back down, grumbling, and Mrs Hudson beamed at John.

“I do hope they don’t take long,” she said. “We should be able to catch one of the re-screenings of the ANZAC day clash on Sky if we’re home soon.”

“Rugby?” John asked hopefully, watching Sherlock’s cheek twitch from the corner of his eye.

“Aussie rules, dear,” Mrs Hudson corrected him with a knowing smile.

“Good enough!” grinned John. “I’ll go hassle your doctor, shall I, Sherlock?”

“There’s no need,” grumbled Sherlock. “If I’m going to be subjected to that level of inanity, I may as well just stay here.”

“Nonsense,” replied Mrs Hudson crisply. “Can’t miss the match. John, you keep him here, I’ll go and have a nice word with his doctor.” She bustled off, determination in small shoulders, and John felt a stab of pity for any clinician who tried to come between his diminutive landlady and her Aussie rules football.


End file.
